


River of Death

by Gray Cardinal (Gray_Cardinal)



Category: Dirk Pitt series - Clive Cussler
Genre: Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Cardinal/pseuds/Gray%20Cardinal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You'll still be stopped," Pitt told Wilton Crown firmly, "if I have to come back from the dead to do it."</p><p>Crown's smile was unnervingly calm.  "You're welcome to try, Mister Pitt, but I don't make zombie movies.  Horror, yes – but no zombies."</p>
            </blockquote>





	River of Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Borusa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borusa/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** Dirk Pitt® is a registered trademark of Clive Cussler and Sandecker RLLLP, which holds the copyrights to the current Pitt novels and owns the characters appearing therein. Use of these copyrighted and trademarked characters in the following story (including a certain Clive Cussler) is not intended to challenge the ownership thereof. Note also that any opinions expressed by the fictional characters appearing in this story are their own, and do not necessarily reflect the views of either the author(s) who created them or the author(s) who happen to be writing their dialogue at the time.

Dirk Pitt regained consciousness to find himself lying full length along a thick Douglas fir log.  Wide leather straps held his body securely in place; their ends had been firmly riveted into the log on either side of him, and the straps themselves had evidently been water-soaked afterward, so that they’d contracted and now bit uncomfortably into his chest and legs.

“Ah, Mister Pitt.” The voice, a cultured tenor, belonged to billionaire film producer and amateur historian Wilton Crown.  “Just in time; I was afraid I’d have to start shooting before you rejoined us.”

Pitt carefully tested his bonds, which failed to yield in the slightest.  “Glad to be here,” he said.  “You do know I’m not in the stuntmen’s union, so I hope you’ve got a trained man here to take my place.”

Crown chuckled.  “Don’t be modest, Mister Pitt.  You have enough experience for any three stunt performers – and in any case, this is an independent production.  You’ll do very well in the part of the hapless victim, and once we’ve finished your scene, the rest of the story should play out entirely according to the script.”

“That would be the plan to simultaneously destroy all the Columbia River dams from Bonneville to Grand Coulee?  I don’t think so,” Pitt told him.  “I sent a text message before your goons bushwhacked me.  The authorities will find your devices in plenty of time.”

“Let them look, Mister Pitt,” Crown said cheerily.  “The supposed bombs are merely a decoy.  The actual work will be accomplished via satellite.  I’ve co-opted three different satellite networks to serve my ends.  Your own NUMA systems will provide the coordinates, one of my competitors’ television networks will transmit the orders, and the Defense Department’s new microwave laser platforms will deliver the blows.”

Pitt couldn’t hold back a shocked breath.  “You penetrated NUMA’s security?  That’s not possible!”

“Oh, but it is.  Simple GPS data is rarely encrypted to any great degree, any computer network can be penetrated with the right combination of hardware and software – and a satellite is merely a point on a computer network.”

“You’ll still be stopped,” Pitt told Crown firmly, “if I have to come back from the dead to do it.”

Crown’s smile was unnervingly calm.  “You’re welcome to try, Mister Pitt, but I don’t make zombie movies.  Horror, yes – but no zombies.”  He pressed a button on a palm-sized control unit, and a sharp, guttural _BUZZZZ_ came to life behind Pitt.  Pitt tilted his head backward as best he could – and stared in disbelief at the huge circular saw blade whose edge was racing vertically some thirty feet away along a narrow conveyor belt.

“You can’t be serious,” Pitt said, resisting an impulse to laugh.  “The sawing-the-hero-in-half shtick was a cliché even before Scooby-Doo got hold of it.”

“The word you want is _retro_,” said Crown.  “And sometimes the old ways are best.  Bisected and wood-chipped bodies are notoriously difficult to identify. Once the dams are gone, the authorities will be far too busy with other matters to spend much time looking for you.  And by the time your footage appears in theaters, I’ll have retouched the images so that no one will realize they’re watching the great Dirk Pitt in his final appearance anywhere.”  He pressed another button, and the conveyor belt underneath Pitt’s log began moving, slowly but steadily, toward the spinning blade.

Pitt's mind whirled into action along with the saw.  He considered the glimpses he'd had of the room around him – part of the old sawmill Crown's studio had rebuilt for the Western they were ostensibly shooting – and instantly reached two conclusions.  There was no way he could free himself from his bonds before being ripped apart -- but there might be one flimsy chance at escape.  At once, he began throwing his weight from side to side, attempting to rock the log sideways and – if he was lucky – off the conveyor.

Crown made a _tsk-tsk_ noise.  “A noble effort, Mister Pitt, but it won’t avail you.”  He tapped his remote, and the conveyor’s speed increased.

Pitt kept rocking for a moment, but though the log shifted slightly, he was having no luck in jogging it off the belt.  What he did hear was a distinct _creaakk_ beneath him as the supports underneath the conveyor assembly groaned under the combined weight of the log and its human cargo.  Evidently Crown’s people hadn’t reinforced the structure during their reconstruction.  Pitt arched his head back again, this time focusing on the surrounding area rather than the rapidly approaching blade.  His eyes abruptly flicked wide open, and instead of shifting from side to side, he began doing his best to jounce the log up and down on the belt.  It was far more difficult than his previous efforts, but the _creaaakk_ sounds grew more pronounced, and Pitt could feel the supports shiver and vibrate beneath him even as the belt propelled him closer and closer to the deadly saw.

“A few seconds more, Mister Pitt,” Wilton Crown said from across the room.  There was a new note in his voice, but Pitt couldn’t tell if it was anticipation or concern as the blade’s electric whine grew ever louder.  His whole being was occupied with his race against time, bouncing the log on the increasingly unsteady belt assembly.

And then, just as Pitt began to feel his hair ruffling from the whistling air displaced by the saw’s motion, it happened.  Half a dozen supports on one side of the belt gave way at once, causing the section of the conveyor below Pitt to tilt sharply downward.  Gravity propelled the log sideways off the belt – but inertia pushed it forward as it went, and Pitt had to wrench himself desperately away from the blade to avoid being sliced to ribbons.  The saw whipped past him with scant millimeters to spare – indeed, it sliced partly through two of the leather straps binding Pitt to the log and left a couple of short, wicked gashes along his side where the barest tip of the spinning blade grazed him.

But the log did not merely crash to the sawmill floor.  Instead, it landed precisely where Pitt had hoped it might – in the topmost end of the old logging flume Crown’s production team had painstakingly rebuilt, supposedly for the movie he was filming in and around the old mill.  The flume’s original purpose had been to send partially cut logs, called cants, shooting down the thick-forested mountainside to the river next to a second sawmill far below.  Now it might be Pitt’s ticket out of Wilton Crown’s death-trap...though in his current condition, wounded and still partially restrained, there was no guarantee he’d survive the nine-mile ride.

As he landed in the flume, Pitt tore his arms free of their shredded leather bonds and threw Crown a manic grin.  “Just like in the movies,” he called.  “The villain always gets what’s coming!”  With a sudden burst of energy, he grabbed at one of the wooden supports holding the blade assembly in place and yanked.  There was a squeal of straining wood as Pitt tugged, aided by the downhill momentum of the log he was riding, and the pole gave way.  The remaining supports buckled and collapsed like so many Tinkertoys, and with a terrible grinding _whirr_, the saw blade came free of its motor and careened wildly across the room.  The last thing Pitt saw as he shot backward and down was Crown’s face, frozen in utter shock, as the circular missile tilted, Frisbee-like, and spun with deadly effect through his body at the waist.   

#

Pitt didn’t have time to do more than smile grimly at Crown’s fate.  It had been pure luck that his log had landed right-side up in the flume, and while his arms were free, his legs were still held tightly against the timber by two riveted-in leather straps.  He couldn’t see where he was going, and Crown’s thugs might well be waiting for him at the flume’s other end.  Then, too, there was no guarantee that the flume itself would hold up long enough for him to complete the trip – if the rickety construction back at the mill was any indication, Crown’s workmen hadn’t been any too careful.

On the other hand, he’d been fortunate in one respect.  In setting up to film Pitt’s planned demise, Crown had revived a number of the old sawmill’s systems – including the one that channeled water into the upper end of the flume.  Without the modest but steady waterflow, gravity alone wasn’t enough to set an object moving downward.  Pitt would merely have been stuck at the upper end, an easy target for quick if less melodramatic death at Crown’s hands.

Instead, Pitt was now being whisked along the broadly curved arc of the flume’s descent at a bumpy nine miles per hour – not terribly fast by comparison to a theme park roller coaster or one of his classic cars, but fast enough given the conditions that there was little he could do except ride out the journey.  A quick pat at the pockets he could access revealed that Crown or his men had relieved him of their contents while he’d been unconscious, his Doxa watch was no longer on his wrist, and even his belt buckle had been confiscated.  “What, they thought I was James Bond?” Pitt muttered as he tore strips from his shirt sleeves and did his best to bandage the oozing gashes along his left side.  It was a makeshift effort at best, but once he’d at least covered the wounds he lay back on the log and tried to rest.

But rest was elusive.  Though his angle of descent wasn’t steep, the combination of the straps biting into his legs and the downward tilt of the flume bed quickly unbalanced the supine Pitt’s blood circulation, leeching blood from his lower limbs and pooling it in his skull.  Sitting up again took effort, and while the action helped to clear his head, his bonds were tight enough to keep the blood from fully returning to his lower limbs.  Worse, the movement jarred his clumsy bandages and tore at the gashes underneath.  While the rate of bleeding didn’t seem likely to kill him outright, it was enough to sap his already waning energy – which only tempted him to lie back again.  He resisted that impulse, realizing that it would only make matters worse as he repeated the cycle, but the effort of remaining partially upright on such an awkward craft taxed his body’s resources to their limits.

A further problem asserted itself as Pitt reached a new curve in the flume; the extra weight of his body, with its center of gravity on the forward half of the log he was riding, unbalanced the log just enough that it slid toward the outer edge of the flume-bed – and might have careened out of the flume entirely if Pitt hadn’t quickly shifted his weight to redirect the log back to the middle of the narrow chute.  Unfortunately, riding backward, and without the ability to move his legs, severely limited Pitt’s ability to steer effectively, and twice more as he hurtled down the mountain he nearly shot out of the flume as he rounded another bend.

Finally, though, Pitt’s luck ran out.  As the log swept around yet another curve, a sharp avian shriek sounded only a few yards overhead, and he recoiled instinctively as a magnificent hawk swept past him.  But the sudden motion cost him his equilibrium, and Pitt knew instantly that there was no way he could correct his balance quickly enough to avoid sailing out of the flume bed.

Instead, he did just the opposite, throwing his weight as far into the outward arc as he could with his scant remaining energy.  A single lightning glance had shown him that if he landed on the narrow, rugged cliff that separated him from the lake a hundred-odd feet below, he’d be battered to a broken ruin as the log bounced downward.  But if he could somehow propel the log far enough before it dropped, there was at least a chance of surviving a water landing.

At first, as the log soared into the air, he thought he’d succeeded.  Then the end to which his legs were still bound tilted sharply and plunged downward, and Pitt groaned in frustration – only to snap to action in the next moment, using every bit of his remaining energy in an effort to wrench the log he was riding toward the target he had spotted.

Against all odds, he hit his mark.  The end of the log struck the topmost few feet of an enormous old evergreen tree that rose above its fellows in a clump that clung to the cliffside.  The tree shuddered and bent – but as Pitt had hoped, it didn’t snap.  Instead, as the treetop sprang back from the impact, it flung his log away like a bullet from a slingshot, with enough force to carry the missile well past the steep cliff and out over the water.  Moments later, Pitt and his log landed with a tremendous splash in Drano Lake, near where its waters emptied into the Columbia River.  After teetering on end for a moment, the log fell sideways into a horizontal position – luckily, with the side to which Pitt was secured facing the sky.  With a deep exhalation of exhausted breath, Pitt sagged down, lying on his back against the soaked wood, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

#

When Pitt struggled back to consciousness, he nearly banged his forehead against a wooden surface a foot or so above him before registering that he was lying in a compact bunk...and, judging by the soft rolling motion he could feel around him, that he was aboard a boat.  He took a quick inventory before trying to move – his legs were sore but responsive, the gashes in his side had been properly bandaged (and possibly stitched), and the shirt he’d torn apart was gone, replaced with a loose, open pajama top that was somewhat too small for him.  On the other hand, he was still wearing his own pants, and they were still damp enough to suggest that he’d been out for a few hours at most.

With an effort, he swung out of the bunk, opened a door, and walked a little unsteadily along the boat’s main corridor until it opened out.  As he entered the main chamber below decks, an older man with neatly trimmed gray-white hair and a short matching beard came down the steps on the room’s far side.  “Glad to see you’re awake,” he said.  “I was out in the river when you made your big dive.  At first I thought somebody had just sent a log down the flume, but when I saw that springboard move off the tree I realized there was a passenger, and I thought I’d better check it out.  Good thing I did, too...you looked pretty cold, and what with the blood you were losing I’m not sure you’d have woken up again.”  As he spoke, he manipulated the controls on a built-in espresso machine, drew a cup of strong coffee, and added a splash of tequila to it before handing it to Pitt.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Pitt told him, accepting the coffee and downing a respectable swallow.  “Have you called the authorities?”

“Not yet,” the man said.  “It’s been only a couple of hours, and I wanted to hear your story first.  By the look of those leather straps, that was a little more than just a thrill ride.”

Pitt cocked an eyebrow at his rescuer.  “That’s an understatement,” he said.  “But if you’ve got a cell phone aboard, I need to make a couple of emergency calls.”

The other man promptly drew a phone from his shirt pocket.  “Go right ahead.”

Pitt glanced at the time on the phone display, then tapped in a number.  “Hiram?  Pitt.  Have Max secure this line and listen in.  We need to lock down some satellites immediately, as in five minutes ago.”  He gave rapid instructions, promised to supply details in due course, then ended the call, trusting NUMA’s resident computer genius and his electronic counterpart to backtrail and abort Wilton Crown’s diabolically ingenious scheme.

His second call was to Al Giordino, who’d been following up another lead upriver near the Tri-Cities and the Hanford Nuclear Reservation.  “Al?  Meet me at the Hood River marina tonight at – make it seven.  And bring cash.  I’m kind of tapped out just now.  Look for the—” he paused, glancing at his rescuer.

“The _Lady Barbara_,” the man said.  “I’m Clive Cussler.”

“The _Lady Barbara_,” Pitt told Giordino.  “Also, call Hiram, then the Admiral, then your local Coast Guard buddy – we’re going to need help nailing everything down.”

“And you?” Giordino asked over the cell connection.  “Are you okay down there?”

“A few scrapes and bruises.  A quick nap and I’ll be good as new.”

“A nap?”  Giordino’s tone was suspicious.

Pitt chuckled, but the amusement was mixed with fatigue.  “Saving the world’s not as easy as it used to be,” he said.  “Hiram should have the tech situation under control, and Crown is out of the picture.  I think I’m entitled to a little rest.”

“If you say so,” Giordino replied, but Pitt could tell his friend was worried.  “See you soon.”

Pitt ended the call and handed the phone back to Cussler, who took it and eyed Pitt curiously.  “Crown?  Would that be Wilton Crown, the movie tycoon?”

“I’m afraid so,” Pitt said.  “I hope he wasn’t a friend of yours.”

“Not at all,” replied Cussler.  “I met him once at a party, and got talked into investing in one of his movies – nearly lost my shirt over it.  But that’s old news.”  The older man gave Pitt an appraising glance.  “You go ahead and lie down.  I’ll get us underway for Hood River.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Pitt said, chuckling again, and headed back toward the bunk.

**Author's Note:**

> The Broughton Flume actually existed, much as it's described herein, but was closed down in 1986, and appeared in several TV shows and movies, notably including episodes of _Lassie_, the Disney film _Charlie the Lonesome Cougar_, and the film version of _Sometimes a Great Notion_. Today, only a few sections remain standing.


End file.
